Sex work lends itself so well to superstition, in both organized and unorganized forms. I know more sex workers who are astrologers and tarot readers then any other profession. But I have all sorts of magical thinking ideas too. I am convinced that the space we’re in for tonight’s party is bad luck, that if I wear anything other than Tabu, I’ll make less, that I shouldn’t bother with anything other than red lingerie. It’s science, without the resources to follow it through – I have a hunch about red and Tabu, and so there’s no night where
I ever want to test the control hypothesis. The knowledge is quite literally not worth its cost. So I have all these little half-truths and sloppily observed practices that I can’t call anything other than superstition.
And I suspect that’s the crux of why it’s so across the board – we often have so much control about the minutia of our business practice, and very immediately variable income, so we can witness lots of different factors impacting what we make, but can’t commit to doing science about it.
I have more, and more organized thoughts about this, but I’m still sitting here in Birkenstocks and a tshirt, so I’d better get ready.
A mysterious and deadly disorder affecting battle-weary Storm Troopers has been detected, leaving the First Order scrambling to find the cause. When two captains from the First Order ask you, a recently graduated doctor, to conduct a year-long study at the Starkiller base, you accept without realising just what it means to be employed by the enemy. Quickly, you learn that not everything aboard the planetary base is about science, and your relationships with the upper echelons of the First Order will make the difference between life and death. As the year unfolds, you face unexpected tragedies and eminent danger, make new allies and enemies, and become tangled in a love affair–all in the name of Sith and Science. (Kylo Ren x reader; rated Mature; ongoing)